Adrift On Your Ocean Floor
by Anniely
Summary: He came back for you, John Watson.


_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Any kind of review is appreciated._

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**Adrift On Your Ocean Floor**

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_You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing.  
><em>_I wove my webs for you because I liked you.  
><em>_(E.B. White)_

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'I don't know,' you say and look up from the newspaper to where he is standing.

He is looking out the window as if he can see the ways of the universe out there - maybe he can. He plays a few absent-minded notes on his violin every now and then.

'John,' he says, the exasperation clear in his voice. 'Of course you _know_. It's blatantly obvious. You just don't want to see.'

'What?' Confusion is filling up your mind and you look back down at the paper in your hands, hoping to find the missing clue there.

_SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS_

'Oh.'

Your gaze wanders back to the figure at the window.

'You're dead,' you state evenly. Secretly you're very proud of how steady your voice sounds.

Sherlock turns around. There's a small bead of blood trickling down from his temple. He gives you one of his rare smiles, but it's interlaced with sadness.

'Of course I am.'

You wake up with a scream stuck in your throat and terror that you haven't felt since you moved in with Sherlock gripping your wildly beating heart.

_._

_'What is the last thing you remember?' she asks, briefly looking up from her notes. She's always scribbling away like her life depends on it._

_'They dragged me away, I think. It's all just pictures and flashes of something that I can't get a hold of.'_

_'Why did they drag you away?'_

_'I wouldn't let them touch him. I was shaking him, I was trying to wake him up.'_

_'Why?'_

_'It's all just a stupid farce. He can't be dead.'_

_'John, I know that what you're going through -'_

_'You don't know anything. You get paid for trying to understand, but you don't. No one does.' _

_He was the only one who did, you add silently._

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You see Lestrade twice. He comes to you after the funeral and says something about sympathy and then a very long sentence that ends with _I'm sorry_. You don't understand what he's sorry about, but you don't care. You don't answer, either. Talking takes up so much of your energy and you have so little left.

Once he comes to Baker Street. The house that seems so different without the smell of chemicals and the crazy violin sounds, so empty. But you couldn't bring yourself to move out, because that would be like admitting that he was gone, like giving up on him and you could never do that.  
>You open the door and let Lestrade in, offering him a cup of tea. You're not trying to be polite, you're just functioning on auto-pilot. And guests get tea.<br>He starts talking again. It's a rather long speech. You sit on the couch that doesn't feel like it used to and sip your tea. It tastes strangely like dishwater. Every now and then you force yourself to nod. That's what you do when someone's talking to you.  
>Then you catch Sherlock's name.<p>

'… hard to accept the truth about Sherlock, but you have to, eventually.'

You put down your cup with much more force than intended and it clinks against the saucer, tea spilling over the table. Lestrade's eyes flit from the spilt tea to your face. You stare him down until he looks at his hands.

'Look, John, I just came here to tell you that we could use your help. Sherlock helped us a great deal even if he was, you know, a fraud.'

For a beat, there is not sound.

'You're talking but it doesn't make any sense,' you say. The anger is building up inside of you. You can feel it fill you up. At first it scared you, being angry all the time, but now it's better than not feeling anything at all.

'John, I was only trying to -' Lestrade starts, but you don't want to pretend to be listening anymore.

'Get out.'

Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears, cold and sharp and distant. The look he gives you is disbelieving, but there is a trace of contempt there as well.

'John,' he tries one more time.

'Get out!'

You all but slam the door in his face.

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_'How are you doing?' she wants to know. She's not a good actress, you think, pretending she doesn't already know. It's obvious how I feel. _

_'I'm fine.' You're not a good actor, either._

_'Have you been out?'_

_'Yes.' Which is true._

_'What did you do?'_

_'I went for a walk.' Also true._

_'Did you go to the cemetery?'_

_'No.' Lie. _

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People forget about you. Lestrade sends you a text a week after you threw him out, but you delete it without reading it. You don't talk to Molly or Sarah and ignore their texts and calls. Your phone stays quiet after that.  
>The only person you let in is Mrs. Hudson. She cuts the rent for you, makes sure there is always some of your favourite tea in the kitchen, tells you to shave when your beard gets too long. But you don't even let her see you cry. You shed your tears in the confines of your room where you can press your face into the pillow to muffle the sound of the sobs that shake your whole body.<p>

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There's a warm hand moving up and down your back. It doesn't stop until you have calmed yourself down. You turn around, a little embarrassed that someone caught you in such a weak moment. He's sitting at the edge of your bed, his hair dishevelled. You sit up a little and he takes his hand back.

'Are you alright?' There is concern in his voice. It surprises you, because you never thought he would ever worry about you.

'No.'

'Do you,' he makes a short pause, 'Want to talk about it?'

'No.'

Now you see hurt in his eyes, but only for a moment. Then he gets up.

'Sherlock,' you say just before he opens the door. 'I'm so sorry you're dead. I wish I could fix it.'

You wake up, cold and alone, with no one there to comfort you. You punch the wall, because there is no one else you can punch. The pain in your hand numbs the pain in your heart for a few minutes.  
>You spend the rest of the night on the couch in the dark, staring at the wall with the smiley face, which seems to be taunting you with its grin, trying to count the bullet holes.<p>

* * *

><p>It's been almost a year now since Sherlock died. You try not to count the days anymore, because every passing hour feels like a century. And yet you still see him, no matter how much time has passed. He is everywhere. In the park, on the tube, at the supermarket. He's there when you hear a violin, or see a black coat with its collar turned up. Sometimes you still turn around to point out something obvious, but then you see that there is no one beside you. At least you don't dream about him that often anymore.<br>Christmas was by far the worst. You woke up convinced that it was all just a dream, that he would be sitting in one of the rooms working on some strange experiment. You scrambled out of bed as fast as you could. The only thing that greeted you was silence.

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On May 4th, your feet carry you to the roof on their own accord. You didn't wake up thinking _I'm going to throw myself off a roof because today seems to be that kind of day_. You got dressed and had a cup of tea and brushed your teeth and then you called a cab and now you're here.  
>It's not a sunny day; the sky is grey and everyone you met was carrying an umbrella. You can almost feel it, as you stand there at the edge, the feeling of flying and then … nothing. It would be so easy to jump after him. The people down on the street are oblivious to you, standing up there, fighting a battle that rages solely inside of you.<br>Your right foot is already off the edge, when it starts to rain. Fat drops of water pour down on you and soak your clothes within seconds. You can't help yourself; you collapse onto the roof. You lie there, spread-eagled, and you laugh until your stomach and your shoulder hurt. And then you feel the tears coming, slowly at first. It doesn't hurt as much as it usually does. Somehow you're not grateful for that, because it means that your forgetting, that you're getting better. And you don't want to be better, not without him. He was always the one who made you better.

You visit his grave that day - of course you do. For the first time you don't say anything. Just stand in front of his gravestone till you're so cold you're trembling all over.

The cab driver looks at you askance, but doesn't say anything about you dripping all over his seats. You give him ten pounds extra.

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By the time you have managed to unlock the door - the key slips from your shaking fingers twice - you can barely hold yourself upright. As quietly as possible you make your way up to the flat.  
>You're too tired to even take off your clothes, so at first you stand under the warm spray of the shower in your shoes and trousers and coat. Somehow, you don't really remember how, you make it to the couch in a dry pair of jeans and a thick sweater.<p>

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When you open your eyes, he's sitting at the end of the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table. You're cuddled into a blanket that wasn't there before and you're about to tell him that he seems to have gone all soft, caring all of a sudden, when you realize that he can't care anymore.  
>You close your eyes and will yourself to wake up.<p>

When you open your eyes the second time, there's no one sitting on the couch with you. There's a steaming hot cup of tea standing on the coffee table. You may not forget to thank Mrs. Hudson later, for the tea and the blanket that's really still there.

.

_'Do you think you're getting better?'_

_'I think I'm not getting worse.'_

_'That's a good thing.'_

_'Is it?' _

_'Of course. You're making progress; you're moving on.'_

_She talks for a while, but you're not listening. You're scared again, because moving on means leaving something behind and you promised him that you would never lose your faith in him. _

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Two weeks later you break down. A real break down which hits you harder than ever before. And the day started out so well.

You were at the park, walking around aimlessly, actually enjoying the scarce rays of sunlight. And then you noticed the guy with the shock of curly brown hair smoking; at the entrance of the park a man in a long dark coat climbed out of a cab; someone bumped into you and apologized and for a second you could hear his voice.  
>It just hits you. You started running as fast as you could.<p>

Every inch of your body aches as you find yourself in the flat - you don't think of it as _your_ flat, although it technically is. Now it's just a flat.  
>You scream at the walls until your throat hurts, you throw books through the room and you smash in the mirror for good measure. In the end, you find yourself looking down at his violin. Your hands itch to take this fragile instrument and hurl it across to room. You want to watch it burst into tiny little pieces and maybe it will make you feel better. You pick it up gingerly.<p>

'I'd be very grateful if you could refrain from destroying my violin.'

You're not really sure when you got from dreams to hallucinations. Maybe you just bumped your head. Gently, you put the violin back where it belongs.

'John,' he says and you have to lean against the wall for support, because his voice is so clear and pure and _his_. You didn't know that you still remembered it so well even after all this time.

You can't face him, you don't dare to. But you have to, because you hear steps behind you and then he is standing in front of you, looking down at you. _Sherlock_.

You're tired, so tired. 'Go away,' you say and for the first time you actually mean it. 'Go away. I don't want this; I don't want it anymore. I can't take the dreams anymore. I can't take the constant pain. Please.'

'John,' he says again, as if he's incapable of saying anything but your name. It's almost funny: Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what to say. And then something else hits you.

Sherlock is crying.

'I'm so sorry, John, that I had to do this. That I had to do this to you. It was the only way I knew how to protect you.'

The tears are dropping down his chin onto his white shirt and you are utterly flustered. There is not a single thought in your mind.

'That you had to do what?' you finally manage to ask.

'That I had to pretend to be dead! I watched you bury me.' He scrunches up his face and angrily wipes the tears away.

'Please, stop this. I don't know what you're talking about. This is a dream, just another dream and I will wake up and I'll be alone again.'

You're about to turn away and let this dream run its course without you, but then a fist connects with your jaw. You stumble backwards and briefly wonder why you would punch yourself in a dream. Your jaw aches. There's the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. Do jaws ache in dreams? Can you always taste blood?

You turn back to Sherlock who is flexing his right hand.

'You punched me.'

'Obviously.' His face is almost back to normal, only faint traces of tears are left on his cheeks.

'Why?' you demand to know, your voice getting louder. In the back of your mind, you have the nagging feeling that you're missing something. Something big, something important.

'It seemed to be the best way to convince you that you are indeed awake. And that I am not a mere figment of your imagination.'

'No. No, no, no, no, no,' you stammer, wildly shaking your head.

'Shall I punch you again?' he offers with the slightest trace of a smile on his lips.

You take in his face and it hits you once again how much you have missed him. His insults and his brilliance, but mostly just his company. But you're still not sure that this isn't just another one of your nightmares. Admittedly, if this is a dreams it's the best you've had in a long time.

You do the only thing you can think of: You punch him, too. Your fist connects with his face and it hurts so wonderfully - it's so real! - you want to laugh.

'You bastard!' you shout instead and suddenly you're crying. Hot tears stream down your face and cloud your vision. Your hands are shaking. 'All this time … and you were alive!'

'John -' he starts, lifting his hands up in surrender.

'No, Sherlock, no. I've counted every day, it's been three hundred seventy-nine days, just in case you were wondering, and all this time you -'

'John, please,' he interrupts you, 'Let me explain.'

'You're alive,' you mumble, barely audible.

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You like to believe that he does not anticipate your next move and you are right.

You feel his body tense, when you throw your arms around him and hug him tighter than you have ever hugged anybody. It feels like hugging a bag of bones, but he's warm and real and there. You can feel his hands on your back and he's hugging you, too, now, holding on just as tightly as you are. You rest your head on his shoulder.

'You're not leaving again, are you?' you ask, sounding like a small child. But it's alright, because he's here. And it's OK as long as he's with you.

'No, John. I won't.'

And that's really all you need to know.

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You do shout at him a bit more a little while later, just for good measure. But you aren't actually angry. You've been over that; you've had enough time to be mad at him. Now you are just happy and relieved and thankful, because the thing is, he came back for you, not the cases or the adventures or the limelight. He came back for you, John Watson.

Because that's how it works: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. That's how it's supposed to be.

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_A/N: May 4th is supposedly the date that Sherlock Holmes fell down The Reichenbach Fall in the books.  
><em>_If I used any typical American terms or missed any typos, please, tell me._


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